nce held out to
him, and wrote:

"Being about to appear before God, I declare that I alone, and
without accomplices, poisoned Sauvresy and murdered the Countess
de Tremorel, my wife."

When he had signed and dated this, Laurence opened a bureau drawer;
Hector seized one of the brace of pistols which were lying in it,
and she took the other. But Tremorel, as before at the hotel, and
then in the dying Sauvresy's chamber, felt his heart fail him as he
placed the pistol against his forehead. He was livid, his teeth
chattered, and he trembled so violently that he let the pistol drop.

"Laurence, my love," he stammered, "what will--become of you?"

"Me! I have sworn that I will follow you always and everywhere.
Do you understand?"

"Ah, 'tis horrible!" said he. "It was not I who poisoned Sauvresy
--it was she--there are proofs of it; perhaps, with a good
advocate--"

M. Lecoq did not lose a word or a gesture of this tragical scene.
Either purposely or by accident, he pushed the door-curtain, which
made a slight noise.

Laurence thought the door was being opened, that the detective was
returning, and that Hector would fall alive into their hands.

"Miserable coward!" she cried, pointing her pistol at him, "shoot,
or else--"

He hesitated; there was another rustle at the door; she fired.

Tremorel fell dead.

Laurence, with a rapid movement, took up the other pistol, and was
turning it against herself, when M. Lecoq sprung upon her and tore
the weapon from her grasp.

"Unhappy girl!" cried he, "what would you do?"

"Die. Can I live now?"

"Yes, you can live," responded M. Lecoq. "And more, you ought to
live."

"I am a lost woman--"

"No, you are a poor child lured away by a wretch. You say you are
very guilty; perhaps so; live to repent of it. Great sorrows like
yours have their missions in this world, one of devotion and
charity. Live, and the good you do will attach you once more to
life. You have yielded to the deceitful promises of a villain.
Remember, when you are rich, that there are poor innocent girls
forced to lead a life of miserable shame for a morsel of bread.
Go to these unhappy creatures, rescue them from debauchery, and
their honor will be yours."

M. Lecoq narrowly watched Laurence as he spoke, and perceived that
he had touched her. Still, her eyes were dry, and were lit up with
a strange light.

"Besides, your life is not your own--you know."

"Ah," she returned, "I must die now, ev